by Rick Jones
“In turn, you will sign a nondisclosure form to keep the knowledge of this operation and its discoveries completely covert. In other words, Ms. Moore, you can never divulge what you see . . . Ever.”
“I find it hard to believe that ancient script would be considered grounds for government secrets.”
“It’s not the script you’re signing the nondisclosure for,” he said. “It’s what’s inside that ship.”
“You know I’ll need an aide,” she offered.
“Of course you’re talking about John Savage, correct? The former Navy SEAL?”
“I see you did your homework.”
“I’m DOD,” he answered. “That’s what I do. But if you need Mr. Savage along, then he’ll be required to sign the same nondisclosure agreement as well.”
“Understood.”
“And as for the $250,000, Ms. Moore, please forward me the proper account number and we’ll settle our deal.” And then, after collecting the photos and returning them to the manila folder, he said, “And please, be prepared. There will be things inside that ship your mind will have a difficult time adjusting to . . . indescribable things.”
“It can’t be more difficult than what I discovered inside Eden.”
He tucked the folder beneath his arm and looked her square in the eyes. And in the same flat voice, he said, “Don’t be so sure.”
CHAPTER THREE
“The DOD?” John Savage said rhetorically. “If they’re involved, then we’re most likely talking about high-end military applications.”
“He did say that their efforts to reverse engineer certain innovations were being held back because they couldn’t decipher the ancient script.”
John Savage, a one-time military elitist with a particular set of battle skills, was a classically handsome man with angular features with dark hair, luminous blue eyes, and a Romanesque-shaped nose—all of which was packed onto a six-one frame of lean muscle. “Are you sure it’s the same type of script you saw in Eden?”
“Some of it but not all,” she said. “But languages and writings often evolve over time.”
“Time? We’re talking about a difference of sixty-five million years here.”
“The similarities were there, John. I saw them.”
“So there’s a correlation between what’s inside that ship . . . and Eden?”
“Who knows,” she answered. “We only know a fraction of our true history based upon some of the facts that we were able to piece together. But the more pieces we discover, the better our understanding of what really happened. History is always being rewritten as more facts present themselves.”
Savage went to the window of Alyssa’s office; the drapes parted enough to give a view of the rain-slicked streets of New York City. The windows were dappled with droplets as people walked along the sidewalks with their umbrellas open. “Has the money been forwarded to AIAA’s account?”
She nodded. “Two hundred fifty thousand dollars,” she said. “It’s a new start, John.”
He knew that she’d been struggling as of late, not only financially but emotionally as well. The media had beaten her down until her spirit had been whipped to the point of nonexistence. But now he saw the spark in her eyes once again, that spangle of brewing life growing with every passing moment. He then crossed the floor and pulled her close. “I’m happy for you,” he told her. “You deserve this.”
And then she kissed him, a gesture that spoke volumes of unbridled love.
When she pulled back he traced the back of his fingers along her cheek, a light and passionate stroke, and then smiled. “Let’s go rewrite history,” he told her softly.
She smiled. And then: “Are you ready to take a boat ride?”
He nodded. “Oh, yeah,” he said.
Oh, yeah.
#
On the following evening, John Savage and Alyssa Moore were flown to Miami International Airport under the watchful eyes of chaperoning agents, and then picked up a connecting flight to Merida International Airport in Mexico. From there they took a transport chopper to the deck of the USS Bainbridge, one of several ships stationed above the submerged vessel, and landed on a helipad at the ship’s stern.
Beneath the heavy wash of the rotors, John and Alyssa left the chopper and ducked unnecessarily beneath the blades until they were clear. Once done, the chopper lifted and banked to the east.
“Welcome to the Bainbridge,” said O’Connell, stepping onto the helipad. He was wearing a pristine white shirt and matching pants with impeccably sharp creases. The only contrasts to the ethereal whiteness of his clothes were the tones of his olive skin and amber-tinted sunglasses. “It’s been a long day, I’m sure,” he added. “But we tried to get you here as quick as possible. I hope the flights weren’t too much of a burden?”
“Not really,” said Savage. “Didn’t care too much for the two ops you sent along, though.”
O’Connell turned to Savage, a spangle of the day’s light reflected off the lens of his glasses. “And you’d be John Savage,” he said evenly.
“I would be, yes.”
“I haven’t had the pleasure,” he said, holding out his hand.
Savage took it.
“Those two ops, as you call them, were a necessity.”
“To what? We signed the nondisclosures. We know the consequences of illegal divulgences. It wasn’t necessary.”
“Mr. Savage, you worked black ops, so you know that something of this magnitude is always necessary. Things haven’t changed since you were a soldier working for a wetwork team. If you took insult, then please accept my apology. But from the moment you signed that nondisclosure form, your life, and Ms. Moore’s, became the property of the United States government.”
“And once this is over?”
“Then you will be free to do whatever it is that you do, Mr. Savage, at the AIAA without being under the auspices of your government. But—if this is what you are alluding to—the nondisclosure remains intact. What you two are about to see can never leave this ship. And as you have already stated, Mr. Savage, you know the consequences of illegal divulgences.” O’Connell hesitated a moment before speaking. “But we’re getting off on the wrong foot, aren’t we? Be assured, Mr. Savage, that you and Ms. Moore have nothing to worry about should you follow the rules of the agreement. They’ll be no disruptions or blackmails in your future to keep you compliant. And we won’t be sending operatives to act as scarecrows to keep you in line. Once this is over, then it’s over. And being a black ops man yourself, I know that you understand the sanctity of maintaining national security.”
Savage agreed and understood. He was once a Tier-One Level operative for the U.S. military. He also understood that being in such a position was also a precarious one. People sometimes disappeared, regardless if they had kept to the agreement at hand.
“As one former soldier to another,” said O’Connell, “you are well respected in the ranks and have served your country well in the past. There is no concern amongst the Tier Ones’ ruling over this operation. You and Ms. Moore have earned their trust. I want you both to believe that.”
To a degree Savage did—from one soldier to another, a warrior’s loyalty. But there was also the learned experience to know that loyalty was not always above honor—and that one man’s honor could easily be compromised. “From one soldier to another,” he finally said.
“Good. Even though you’re no longer under the auspices of the U.S. government, we still see you as one of us: Once a brother, always a brother.” O’Connell looked skyward, took note of the descending sun, at the reddening of the sky along the horizon, and removed his sunglasses. “Are you hungry?” he asked them.
Savage turned to Alyssa, who nodded in the negative.
“We’ve already eaten,” he returned. “But thank you.”
“We just want to get to work,” said Alyssa.
“Tomorrow,” O’Connell answered. “Tomorrow we head down to a platform situated on a marine terrace beside the structu
re. I would suggest that you get some sleep. After tonight there’ll be little rest since we’re within a budgeted time frame.” He tipped his head in valediction. “Ms. Moore, Mr. Savage, do have a good evening. And please see the ensign regarding your accommodations for the night. I’m afraid they’ll be quite spartan, seeing this is a naval ship and all.”
“We’ll be fine,” said Savage. “And thank you again, O’Connell.”
“My pleasure.” After giving a second nod, the DOD official turned and descended the stairway, leaving John and Alyssa to themselves.
On the horizon the sky turned various shades of different colors, going from orange to red to mauve, finally evolving to complete and total darkness. Above them a canopy of stars glittered like a cache of diamonds spread over black velvet. Below them, glowing eerily from beneath the water’s surface, were numerous banks of lights.
#
John and Alyssa leaned against the ship’s railing and noted the tinsel-and-glass glitter of the peninsula’s surface which reached out of the star-lit sky in the distance, the sky and the water blending into a gorgeous horizon of pinprick lights and gentle swells.
Alyssa drew closer to John, who corralled her with a sweep of his arm. “There’s no way I’m going to sleep tonight,” she told him. “There’s just no way.”
“Like a little kid on Christmas Eve, huh?”
“Think about it,” she said, looking down at the muted lights beneath the water’s surface. “Down there is a remnant of what scientists believe to be the bolide that collided with Earth nearly sixty-five million years ago when, in fact, it’s nothing of the sort, but something celestially created. Can you even begin to imagine the level of intelligence of this race? Or even comprehend their capability to manufacture such a craft nearly six miles across?” She looked at him. “O’Connell said this race was perhaps above us on the evolutionary scale as we are to the amoeba.”
“And he’s probably right,” he said. “Remember when a team of scientists got excited over the discovery of a block of ice on Mercury? A block of ice. When all along a race of beings existed sixty-five million years before us, and perhaps a race sixty-five million years before them, and there’ll most likely be another race sixty-five million years from now—after us.”
Just then they followed the tail of a star crossing the sky. Instead of making a wish, Alyssa considered other aspects. “Who’s to say that right now, as we stand here, that a meteorite carrying an inert species of microbe just landed in some planet’s ocean. And then its life was jumpstarted the moment lightning struck the surface of the water?”
Savage said nothing.
She leaned her head against his shoulder and looked downward, into the lights. There are writings down there, she considered, ancient script similar to the ones discovered in Eden. So was there a correlation between the two? Did Eden share ties with this vessel? Even when the distance of time separated them by nearly sixty-five million years?
Tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough, she thought.
Not fast enough at all.
CHAPTER FOUR
The sleeping quarters, at best, and as O’Connell stated, were very spartan. It was a small area with two bunks, a desk that divided the area between the bunks, a closet, and lavatory. Alyssa lay there with her eyes staring up into darkness, listening to John’s slow and even rhythm as he slept on the adjacent bunk. I’m glad someone can sleep.
When morning arrived, Alyssa was in the lav getting ready while John slowly sat up and planted the bottoms of his feet against the cold-plated floor, then rubbed the morning itch out of his eyes with the heels of his hands. His hair was in a wild tangle and a bearded growth was beginning to emerge.
“Morning, sunshine,” Alyssa said, returning toiletries to her bag.
“Did you sleep?” he asked.
“Not at all.”
“Yeah. Me neither.”
She shook her head. Why do men always say that they don’t sleep when they do?
Almost a half hour later they were in the mess hall, which was an area of limited space with stainless steel benches and tables riveted to the deck. John Savage was having a difficult time waking up, his eyes red and raw with laced stitching as Alyssa’s remained cue-ball white, even with no sleep. Caught between Savage’s hands was a cup of piping hot coffee, the scent of the brew rich and bold.
When the clock reached the top of the hour, O’Connell entered the mess wearing military issue and G.I. boots, not exactly the attire of a DOD official. In his hand was a coffee cup that read: The World’s Greatest Dad. After taking a sip from the cup, he placed it on top of a stainless steel table. “Morning,” he said. “Before we get going I need to brief you on a few things.” He then raised his leg and placed his foot on one of the seats, so that his leg now stood out at a right angle. Leaning forward, he rested an elbow across his knee. “Approximately three weeks ago—not quite three weeks—an earthquake hit this region, as you know, which gave rise to what was believed to be a remnant of the bolide that impacted with Earth nearly sixty-five million years ago. However, it’s not a bolide at all. But the remains of a much larger ship that struck the planet that caused the final extinction event. Right now there are some mild aftershocks that continue to take place from time to time. But they’re nothing to worry about. Now beneath us is an underwater platform. A staging site,” he said, gesturing a hand to the floor. “And to get there we’ll be taking a sub. From there we’ll be making our way inside the ship via a walkway linked to the ship.”
“An Umbilical Tube,” commented Savage, stating this as mere fact.
O’Connell nodded. “The platform below us has been set up approximately thirty feet from the ship’s remnant. Now this collared walkway runs from the platform to the ship’s hull. But because of the aftershocks, the station below us is buttressed by shock-absorbent supports to reduce instability. Therefore, the walkway is quite secure.” O’Connell stood. “I know I said this before, but what I’m about to say to you needs repeating, since this comes from the highest political seat in Washington.” He hesitated before shifting his line of sight from Alyssa’s eyes to Savage’s, almost sensing and reading their insights, their need to feed their questioning fascination. “Down below,” he began, “inside that ship, you will see things that are to be kept confidential under the strictest measures. I know I’ve said this before. But national security is optimum here. I just need you two to be very clear on that. And both of you are, correct?”
“Of course,” said Alyssa. Savage, however, only gave a simple nod before bringing the coffee to his lips. If he understood anything at all, it was that the American government was simply adding another mystery to its trove of secrets purposely kept from the public’s eye—just another day at work.
O’Connell looked at his wristwatch. “The sub leaves in twenty minutes,” he said. “Please be at the launching site on time.” Picking up his coffee cup, O’Connell headed toward the aft of the ship, making sure that the sub was prepped to go.
#
The USS Bainbridge
Zero Hour
Nearly twenty-five minutes later, Alyssa and Savage were on board an Explorer Class submarine along with O’Connell and the craft’s pilot. With practiced maneuvering, the deck’s crane slowly hoisted the vehicle off the deck and directed it over the sea, where it was lowered until the hull bobbed like a cork on the water’s surface. After final communication was exchanged between the pilot and the onboard ship’s tech, air was released from the trim tanks, allowing the sub to descend.
Once the propellers were in progress, the sub angled downward to a level of 1900 feet where it leveled off.
At this depth the water was cold and dark and blue, with the exception of distant cones of light emitting from light banks located on top of the platform.
The pilot reached for a set of switches and flipped the toggles, kicking on the sub’s powerful lights. Conical beams of white luminosity alit on a hull that was rough in texture, the vessel’s sid
e covered with groping clusters of sedimentary rock and earth that had accumulated over sixty-four million years. Yet beneath the hardened surface remained visible patches of the ship’s exterior, the hull’s skin bearing flashes of an unknown metal having a mirror polish to it.
The remnant was massive, the mini-sub dwarfed by its immense size, and glided within feet of the vessel’s portside.
On the unblemished patches of the ship’s surface, Alyssa could make out archaic script: ейшых ўфілёзафаў, but couldn’t discern or decipher its meaning, the writing having no similarity whatsoever to the lettering she found in Eden.
“Amazing,” she whispered, but no one seemed to hear her. Or if they did, chose not to respond in the midst of their own allure.
The mini-sub slowly rounded the aft side of the ship, the lighted platform coming into view with the hooded staging area appearing like a series of barracks connected together beneath a grid work of lighting, an undersea station. Running from the end of the station to the ship’s hull was a tube made of high-density rubber, the pipeline acting as an umbilical tie between the platform and the ship.
The vessel’s outcropping was almost thirty feet above the marine terrace, with several levels still buried. The analogy here is that the ship was like an iceberg, revealing its tip with the vastness of its shape hidden underneath.
Once the sub maneuvered beneath the squared opening that led up into the hooded platform area, the pilot filled the ballast tanks with air, which caused the sub to rise.
When the mini-sub was stabilized and the docking platform connected, everyone exited the vehicle with the exception of the pilot. As soon as they were standing on the base floor, the pilot, through the sub’s bubble glass, gave a mock salute and submerged the vessel, the water churning to froth as it descended beneath the waterline.
In the quarters, American and Mexican nationals milled about, all wearing lab coats and carrying clipboards, each person running from one monitor to the next, taking notes.